


Not While I'm Around

by MariusPontmersquee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariusPontmersquee/pseuds/MariusPontmersquee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The hunter was using chalk to mark out runes on the floor. Ignoring the howls of exasperation from overhead, he sketched out maybe three symbols per minute. The man was obviously either very brave or extremely foolish. A thought occurred that Grantaire had never witnessed an exorcism before. In the back of his mind, a voice very loudly warned him to leave. Grantaire was not the hunter, or even the bystander.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Grantaire was the hunted.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: There are mentions of rape in this fic. I have not included a lot of detail in the flashbacks that recount it, and even then, there are points whereby I stop the scenes entirely before anything occurs. However, please be careful when reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be gentle.

_“Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are all entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn.”_

*

Grantaire really needed a smoke. 

It was a weekly tradition of theirs, to go to this nightclub. Grantaire knew the barman and the music was always good, so that was where they spent every Sunday night without fail. Eponine insisted on it, even though she couldn’t ever attend. Grantaire guessed that it had something to do with living vicariously through others, though he didn’t know what she thought she was missing out on. 

He was used to this atmosphere, even comfortable with it, but tonight, the club was stifling. The heat of all the bodies made the air chokingly hot, people pushing up against each other and against the walls and at the bar and Grantaire had to go have a smoke because if he was going to suffocate he’d rather do it for himself, thank you very much. 

“R, are you all right?” Jehan’s glittery face popped out of seemingly nowhere. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, Jehan. Just enjoying the music.” He assessed his friend’s sweat soaked figure. “Are you?”

“I am _alive_ tonight.” Jehan grinned, bearing sharp teeth. “The music, the bodies – Ah!” They threw their hands up.

“Well, that makes one of us.” Grantaire said, sipping his drinking. 

“Why are you not dancing?”

“I wouldn’t want there to be blood on the dance floor.” He joked halfheartedly.

“R.”

“What if I cause a panic at the disco?”

“R.” Jehan sighed. “What’s wrong tonight? You never usually seemed concerned by-” Their voice dropped dangerously low, “-humans.”

Grantaire smirked, leaning forwards, “'Humans'?” He mocked. 

“Oh, come on, R. Don’t be facetious. What’s wrong?”

Grantaire toyed with himself for a minute. He didn't want to ruin Jehan’s night with a rumor. “Nothing.” He painted on what he liked to call his ‘happy face’. “I’m fine just standing here.”

Jehan rolled their eyes. “Come on, R, dance with me? Please?”

“In a little while. I’m going to go catch a smoke first.” He said. Jehan shrugged. Grantaire and Jehan were well known for being easily the best dancers among their few friends – well, not friends, exactly, but people they came across. It was hard to be friends with people that would more likely stab you than hug you.

Despite this, people knew them. Maybe it was because they had a history. Maybe it was because when anyone crossed any of them, it did not end well for that party. Maybe it was because they seemed to have a connection through the melody whenever they danced together – probably because Jehan was used to it - that beat, that wrapped around them both and made their moves fuse and become one flowing body. 

Casting one more look towards Grantaire, who quickly downed his drink, Jehan weaved back through the throng of grinding bodies, leaving Grantaire standing at the bar with a worse mood than before.

He was too old for this.

Slinking off to the cloakroom exit, he felt more tired than normal, which was just his luck, really, seeing as being dead shouldn’t come with energy levels. There was an ache inside of him, and it was bone deep.

The being dead bit didn’t bother him as much these days. The only thing that sucked was his thirst for blood. He remembered when he’d had to—

Grantaire swallowed the memory down. The hallway he walked down was narrow and dank, casting a claustrophobic sense to that wing of the building. Grantaire shrugged it off. Nothing could really hurt him anymore; nothing earthly, anyway, and this was about as mundane as it could get. Nearing the brightly lit door, he heard a muffled shout from outside and several loud bangs. Curiosity getting the better of him, he slowly swung the broken fire exit open and stepped into the alleyway.

Grantaire emerged in the thick of… Wait, was that a fight?

In front of him stood a muscled man with curly blonde hair, who, at a first glance, seemed to be whispering angrily to himself. The man had his slim back to Grantaire and was wielding a long sword, swirling and jabbing gracefully at the shadows, as if they were annoying him.

 _Huuuuuuuuunteer_ , The demon whispered, and, well, holy shit. Part of him felt like he should’ve known that his usual hang was inhabited by a creature from hell. 

Smiling grimly, the man put down his sword, but kept one hand holding it on the ground. He pulled a something from his pocket – salt – and cast a circle around himself.

The hunter was using chalk to mark out runes on the floor. Ignoring the howls of exasperation from overhead, he sketched out maybe three symbols per minute. The man was obviously either very brave or extremely foolish. A thought occurred that Grantaire had never witnessed an exorcism before. In the back of his mind, a voice very loudly warned him to leave. Grantaire was not the hunter, or even the bystander.

Grantaire was the hunted.

_You will taste s-s-so good._

The man ignored the voice still, scribbling frantically on the dirty tarmac. The shadows gathered around him, swirling and twisting like snakes. For some reason, the demon could not touch the angelic man, despite its best efforts. 

In a few strokes he was done. “Demon!” He cried, standing up at last. His voice - the conviction and passion made flattened Grantaire against the wall. He had never heard anything as beautiful. “Reveal yourself!”

Suddenly, a dark form manifested behind the hunter. As if on instinct, the man turned around, slashing his sword diagonally through the shape. The demon vanished, only to reappear on his other side, its colour fading. The man struck it again.

The beast sunk its claws into the hunter’s side. The beautiful man tipped his head back, screaming in fury and pain, and drove his sword through the beast, each swipe quicker than the last. The demon laughed, but it sounded weaker. It sounded like a child’s giggle put through an auto tuner and the noise crept up Grantaire’s spine like a spider.

The man did not give up, though. He seemed to be moving towards the center of the runes and once again Grantaire thought the man foolish. It was eleven o’clock on a Friday night, for fucks’ sake. It seemed everywhere he went he could not forget the world he died into. 

At that moment, the demon appeared in the center of the man’s scrawling, casting bright rays of thick unnatural light to the corners of the alley, illuminating Grantaire. It was so bright and so terrifying that Grantaire could only assume it was why the hunter did not notice him. The creature began to shriek and the man used the opportunity to stab it with his sword, this time to keep it there.

It began to expand and contract, growing larger and brighter until it became a huge orb of foul-smelling air. The orb flickered, once twice, the man in awe the whole time. 

Then the demon exploded into nothing, blasting the man onto the floor, the sword clattering loudly on the concrete by his side.

Grantaire yanked open the door to the club and began to run.

*

Jehan Prouvaire was having a very good time. 

The music was pounding loudly in their ears. They were surrounded by bodies, all sweating, of different colours and shapes and sizes. 

And there was a very, very cute boy staring at them from across the room.

Pretending not to see, Jehan continued dancing, swirling and moving in that enchanting way they knew humans couldn’t get enough of. Out of the corner of their eye they could see the details on the boy’s shirt, and smell his cologne. Jehan raised their arms above their head.

Suddenly, as they knew he would be, said boy was tapping them on the shoulder. Jehan turned and grinned wolfishly, pulling the boy’s arms around them and twisting and moving to the electric beat. Up close, Jehan could see the boy’s freckles. 

It was a strange phenomena, Jehan considered, that two people who were complete strangers could come to know each other through something as physical as dance. There were no polite greetings, something which instinctively did not sit right with a child of the Fair Folk. But they were in human company now, and if there was one thing they knew how to do, it was dance.

The song sped up, and the two moved together like charged atoms. Jehan twirled in his arms; the stranger held their hips. They either danced for hours or for seconds, moving from a sexy electro track to a less serious pop number where they laughed together, dancing in a dorky way, a way that Jehan never thought they’d be capable of, let alone have competence in.

Later, they fell out of crowd, giggling and tugging on one another’s hand. The cute boy tugged the faery to a booth, where it was a lot quieter. They sat opposite to one another.

“How did you learn how to dance like that?” 

Jehan shrugged, grinning slyly. “I do not know. How did you?”

The boy waggled his eyebrows. “I have ways.”

Jehan laughed loudly. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d been so elated. Everything about this night had been perfect, except Grantaire, but that was just his way, Jehan supposed. This human was making up for any of his misgivings, anyway. 

The pretty stranger held out a hand. “I’m Courfeyrac,” he stated gallantly.

Jehan reciprocated. “Jehan Prouvaire. A pleasure to meet you.” 

They were nervous – how the heck were they nervous? Wait, were their hands sweaty?

Courfeyrac blushed. “I like your outfit. You look like you could kill someone with those shoes alone.”

“You think so? Getting style advice from Scarlett Johansson paid off, then.” Jehan internally smacked themself. Scarlett Johansson? What were they thinking? They’re not a huge nerd, they’re not-

“Nah, man, you’re too sharp for the black widow. You’re too… wild?” 

“Wild?” Jehan laughed. “If you think I am wild, you should see some of my friends. I mean, they are practically- ” Jehan bit their lip, hard. _Shut up, Jehan._

Courfeyrac did not notice. “You should see my friends, man. They’re the handful.”

Jehan watched as Courfeyrac started talking excitedly about his group. Courfeyrac used big hand gestures, speaking animatedly about how great they all were, like a little kid describing the best bit about Christmas. Three of his friends were dating each other, one of them was obsessed with moths and another who pretended to be tough but cried at Disney movies – it should have been a boring topic, but Courfeyrac made everything seem exciting.

The boy was courteous, far more courteous than Jehan had come to expect from humans, forever asking Jehan questions to make up for the time he spent speaking. Jehan admired with wonder the ways his eyes lit up – like stars, some part of their mind filled in. His hair framed his boyish face and it was hard to believe, even in this club packed to the brim with music, that there was anyone else in the world. He had this blissed out look on his face, and Jehan couldn’t even imagine him having wrinkles. The thought that this man, who smiled as if the sun was hung before him, could even grow old, made Jehan sad. Fae liked pretty things, and they liked young things. Jehan knew that they were not meant to think like that, not anymore. They were nearly human - they acted like a human. They had let go of that cruel world.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” Courfeyrac blurted. “I’ve just been rambling on and on about people you don’t even know.”

“What?” Jehan cried, mock outraged. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You are a magical conversationalist.”

Jehan didn’t know how long they had been talking but knew that they could speak all night with Courfeyrac. They twirled their braid as Courfeyrac spoke again, not realizing how obvious they were in their attraction. 

Just then, their phone beeped in their pocket. Jehan was reluctant to answer it, but saw it was from Grantaire.

_Hunters are here. Get out now._

Jehan locked their mobile quickly, shoving it in their pocket. They looked across at Courfeyrac, beginning to panic. 

“What’s wrong?” Courfeyrac said, genuine concern written all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but Jehan jumped in first.

“I am sorry.” They said hurriedly, making for the door. “I have to go.” 

*  
“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac shouted, looking around wildly. 

“Courfeyrac! Over here.” Combeferre was shaking his head frantically, looking down at his friend on the floor. Enjolras was laid out in the street, blood quickly soaking his shirt.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac cried, running to his friend’s side, his face drenched in worry. “Enjolras? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s only a small-”

“What were you thinking, Enjolras? You could have gotten yourself killed.” Combeferre looked positively scary.

“You know I wouldn’t have.” Enjolras coughed out as Courfeyrac sat down on his left. “I had it all under control.”

Combeferre had called Courfeyrac just after Jehan had run off. Courfeyrac frowned at the thought, but shook it off. There was something more important going on at the moment.

Laid out on the street like that, Enjolras looked like he’d been slain. A little pool of blood gathered on the pavement next to his wound and his face was greyer than the concrete. His sword lay just to the left of him, and was drenched in ichor. It gave Courfeyrac chills. 

“You do not, I repeat, you do not fight demons all on your own. We’ve been through this – how many times do I have to tell you?” Combeferre shouted.

“Come on, Enjy.” Courfeyrac joked weakly. “We were just inside the club. You could’ve at least sent a text,” The man mimed holding a phone in front of himself, tapping the imaginary keys as he spoke. “Hey, C2. I’m a silly human who has just found a greater demon in the alleyway to a dodgy club. Do you two want to head on down and join the fun?”

Enjolras made an exasperated sound that was replaced by a hacking cough. “I don’t really see the problem-”

“Of course you don’t, Enjolras.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Courfeyrac jumped in quickly, “You need to think more before you do things like this. We’re a team, Enjy.” He said gently.

“I know, I just-” 

Combeferre was calming down now. His outbursts were scary as hell, but relatively brief. “Just – think. Please. If not for yourself, for your friends.”

“I- I had it under control.” Enjolras gulped, trying to sit up. He winced.

Courfeyrac’s face softened immensely. “It’s okay, buddy.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Combeferre looked between them both, slightly exasperated that neither could stay mad long enough so that he could actually try and hammer some sense into them first.

“Tell that to Joly.”


	2. Chapter 2

“A hunter? You can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly.” Grantaire collapsed on the couch. 

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.” Eponine bit out sarcastically. Her voice always carried an echo, probably because she wasn’t quite there, Grantaire supposed. 

He nodded. “I’m being serious.”

“No. Fucking. Way.”

Their flat was pokey, but felt like home. The floorboards were half polished and creaked when the wrong ones were stepped on; the leather sofa had patches and weird stains, and there was definitely a cockroach nest somewhere. But it was home.

On the walls hung pieces of artwork that Jehan had confiscated from Grantaire before he could tear them to pieces. Each windowsill was covered in plants, and Jehan had bought something like ten miles of fairy lights which they trailed around the room. Cushions and funky rugs were near everywhere. Grantaire wasn’t going to be the one to point out that they smelled funky, too. 

“I saw him with my own eyes, Eponine. He was like an angel.”

Eponine raised her eyebrows.

“The problem is,” Jehan said from their position on the couch, “If there are hunters in this area, we have a question on our hands: What is so important for them to be here?”

“More like who is so important?” Eponine murmured darkly.

“Well, this is New York.” Grantaire shrugged. “It’s not unlikely that there were hunters here anyway.”

“I thought they had died out.” Said Jehan. 

“Apparently not.” Grantaire could only see this ending badly. 

“Well, I think we should see if this blows over before we do anything.” 

“We don’t want to attract unwanted attention,” Eponine said, backing up Jehan. “I say, why get involved if we don’t have to? I don’t know what they’d want with us, anyway.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t negate to get rid of any supernatural beings just because there are only three of them.” Grantaire couldn’t take it any longer. There were some things he couldn’t hide – couldn’t hide from, either. He could lie to everyone in the world. Everyone but Jehan and Eponine. 

The lives they had made for themselves over the past few years were comfortable. Grantaire had a job; technically, he didn’t need to sleep, so at night, he painted. Jehan worked in a bookshop. They both bussed tables too, just to get by, but they were happy. Gavroche was finally in school. Grantaire couldn’t let – he wouldn’t let - his friends go back to the lives they had lived before. He’d have to be staked through the chest first.

“I heard something the other day.” Grantaire admitted. Both Jehan and Eponine turned to look towards him. 

“R?”

“I was talking to one of my contacts,” He said resignedly. “They said – they said that they’d heard something on the streets. Something about ‘eradication’ or ‘extermination’. It’s – it’s like a cult.”

“What?” Jehan cried, horrified. “I thought… Hunters are nomadic. There can’t be.”

“Not this time.”

“They will kill us all,” Jehan whispered. 

“No fucking way.” Eponine said, her voice like barbed wire. “No chance – there are hundreds of us. They wouldn’t know where to start.”

“It’s just – it’s just a rumour.” Grantaire murmured.

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“I... what about Gavroche?” Jehan said.

“We don’t tell him, obviously,” Eponine was buzzing with electricity. “He’s not – we can’t let him know.”

The three agreed this between themselves. They were sat in silence for a short while, each one introspective and dealing with the danger in their own ways. Jehan bit his nails, and looked up. 

“R?” He said. “How long have you known?”

“I was going to say something last night.” Grantaire said, looking between them. “I was going to tell you last night but then-“

“-This happened.” Jehan finished, exhaling a long breath of air.

“They have to be going for something bigger.” Eponine decided. “There has to be a reason they’re back. This ‘mindless slaughter’ thing doesn’t sound right.”

“Like what?” Asked Jehan. 

“Like… like-” 

“No.” Grantaire said, shaking his head. Jehan looked like he was on the cusp of saying something.

Eponine grimaced. “I’m just saying that there has to be something bigger that they’re out to get, that’s all. I think you need to prepare yourself for the fact that maybe Montparn-” Eponine looked towards Jehan for support, but only found a glare instead. Apparently they had decided to protect Grantaire rather than face- 

“No.” Grantaire hugged his knees. “No.”

“Let us not jump to any conclusions, okay, darlings?” Jehan said, trying to sooth the visible tension in the room. “Perhaps we should wait a little while and see before we take any action.”

Grantaire was still holding himself in at the chest.

For all of his second life, one thing had been held over his head: Montparnasse. Somehow, ever since he had escaped from that place, he had been seeing his sire everywhere. Walking down the street he would see a glimpse of jet black hair only for it to disappear the next second. Any sounds he heard at night were the aggressive thumps of Montparnasse coming to take him back. Even with Eponine there, Grantaire lived in constant debilitating fear.

The worst part of it, though, was the memories. They came without warning and without any semblance of ending.

He came back from the past to the sight of his friends looking at him with what looked like pity in their eyes. It made Grantaire’s chest hurt.

“I will pick Gav up from school today.” Jehan said, climbing to their feet. “You-” They pointed to Grantaire, “Wait here.” They said, lithely moving towards the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Eponine sat down next to him. He felt her presence beside her, although it was sometimes hard to pick up on. She laid her head on his shoulder. This was her, apologising in the only way she could.

Grantaire heard Jehan pottering about with cutlery for a few minutes before returning with a cup of what looked like tea, but Grantaire knew better. “You are going to sit here and drink this and feel better, Okay? I hear there is a new season of Orange is the New Black on Netflix.” They said, pushing the mug towards Grantaire, before walking over and shrugging their jacket on. The cold didn’t really affect them, but they wore a coat anyway. They had to at least try to look human.

Grantaire looked up at Jehan gratefully and clutched the offered food close. “Thank you.”

Jehan shushed him good-naturedly. “Ep?” They said waveringly. 

Eponine sat up. “I’ll go and put my ear to the ground. I’m sure people will be talking about what happened last night.” She conceded. Standing up, she cast a wicked grin towards Grantaire. She appeared to flicker in and out of reality for a few seconds before fading out until she had disappeared completely. The flat felt empty without her.

One thing that could be said about Eponine was that she was very good at going undetected. Grantaire had been caught thousands of times when he thought he was alone with the sound of her breathy laugh in his ear. She said that she found it exhausting to be in their dimension so much, so at night, when she knew Gavroche was safely tucked in his bed, she would leave. Grantaire didn’t know where she went, not exactly, but he never asked.

He heard Jehan close the door softly behind him, and knew he was alone again, with nothing but his thoughts and a cup of type A blood for company. It stank.

*  
“Combeferre, could you hand me the salve, please?” 

Joly was busy working on Enjolras’ wound. After the initial tutting that took place when the triumvirate turned up on his doorstep in the early hours of that morning, Joly had quickly got to work healing his friend. It was a nasty injury; unlike normal incisions, those made by a demon were quick to become septic, and Enjolras had entered into a fever. Joly assured a worried Combeferre that he would indeed be fine, although it would be his just desserts if he wasn’t. Ichor, he prattled, was a very dangerous thing if untreated, but perfectly harmless otherwise.

Bossuet came in with four mugs of tea to see the sight of Enjolras stretched out on their dining room table. Musichetta insisted that they keep the house relatively normal, and no-one argued with Musichetta, and so this was the best medical gurney they were going to find. There was a wet patch on Bossuet’s shirt from the inevitable spillage, but he still smiled when he passed the mug to Courfeyrac, who cupped the offering in both hands.

Enjolras had been in and out of consciousness since his initial collapse in the alley. Courfeyrac carried him to Joly’s flat while Enjolras sweated the whole seine on to his back, and Combeferre took his bag. Having a sweaty hunter on you was a little bit disgusting, but Enjolras wasn’t awake to hear his innuendo likening him to another, well, wet piece of meat, so he bore it with grace. What a shame.

“So, Doc, when is our fearless leader going to be fit to fight again?” 

Joly looked up, suddenly excited to be asked about his favourite topic. “He should be his usual self by Wednesday. I mean, he has to stay rested until then otherwise the infection will grow an-”

“We’ll make sure he does.” Combeferre promised, looking resignedly at Enjolras’ unconscious form. “Even if we have to strap him down.” 

Courfeyrac perked up. “Did I hear someone mention bondage?”

“I think you’ll have to ask ‘Chetta before you borrow our ropes.” Bossuet said. 

A little while later, Joly turned to Combeferre. “This is the third time this month, Combeferre. He’s going to get himself killed.”

“What can I do? He will not listen. He thinks it is liberty or death, or both.” Combeferre said tiredly.

Courfeyrac plopped his tea down next to Bossuet, who had since laid his head on the table and was softly snoring. He walked over to Combeferre and hugged him. “Don’t worry ‘FerreBear,” He murmured. “He’s an idiot. He always has been, always will be. We’ll be okay.” 

Combeferre smiled, hugging his friend back. Courfeyrac was the breath of fresh air the group needed. So far, no one had been seriously injured, and those in the group who were active hunters had always been successful. They’d only recently become active, actually, but Courfeyrac was glad that they had all trained for so long. Seeing Enjolras tonight was testament enough to that. 

“Look, ‘Ferre. I’ll stay and look after Enjolras today. You go out. I know there was a tutorial at the college you wanted to attend-”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Combeferre said.

“Of course not!” Courfeyrac mimicked a wound in his chest. “But I already told Feuilly you’d take him. Are you going to be the one to tell Feuilly that he can’t attend a History of Eastern Europe Craft convention? I think not.”

Combeferre gave Courfeyrac a dry look. “Fine.”

“Yay!” Courfeyrac did a little victory dance. “Well,” He said, looking at Combeferre, who had not moved yet. “What are you waiting for? You have obscure topics to learn about.”

Combeferre grumbled but left the flat in a relatively short period of time. He stopped to talk to Joly at the door about some new herb he had come across, but was out on his way soon after that. Poor Joly looked haggard. As soon as Combeferre had left he threw his keys to Courfeyrac and went to pick up Bossuet from under the table. At some point Bossuet had managed to get under there, although Courfeyrac couldn’t really say when it happened, or how. All he did was take sneaky pictures of his dribble before Joly swatted him off and took them both back to bed, where Musichetta had been the whole time. Courfeyrac was left alone in the silence of their living room.

“So, Enjy.” Courfeyrac grinned at his best friend, who was completely out to the world. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

*  
Jehan stood in the spot that Gavroche had permitted the trio to wait at when he first started attending school. Apparently it wasn’t ‘cool’ to stand anywhere but right next to the school gate, right by the wall. None of them had any doubt that Gavroche could get home perfectly fine on his own; the kid, even being human, was scarily streetwise, and knew how to stay out of trouble. They doubted planned parenthood would agree, however, so here they were.

The fey knew they got looks – they always got looks, despite their best efforts to look as human as possible. It worked, too – Jehan had lived amongst mortals long enough that their magic had become muted. They did no longer appear feral or outwardly threatening. There was just something about them that made people turn away. Jehan didn’t mind. 

“Jehan!” Gavroche shouted, running towards them. Jehan picked him up and spun him around with ease, despite his tiny frame. He was seven, and he was happy. The thought made Jehan’s heart flutter. “I thought it was ‘Taire’s turn to pick me up today?”

Jehan smiled, ignoring the vision of their friend slumped over a bottle of something back at home. “N’aw, conker, you have got me today. Uncle ‘Taire is busy this afternoon, so I have come to take you away –” They leaned in conspiratorially, long hair falling forward, “-and we are going to get ice cream.”

“Yessss.” Gavroche said, making a _kerching_ movement with his arm. They began walking out onto the busy Brooklyn street, side by side. Gavroche looked up at Jehan in childlike curiosity. “Hey, Jehan, We’re not going to the dentist or the doctor or anything, are we?”

Jehan looked at him blankly. “Why would we be going to there?” 

“That’s what human parents do when they want their kids to go to the doctors.”

“Well, if you were really that much trouble, you know Uncle ‘Taire could just make you go. And then we’d get the doctor to use the biggest needle and… well, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Gavroche shook his head rapidly.

“Good thing we’re only going to get ice-cream, then.” Jehan said. 

The pair walked towards the subway as Gavroche started telling Jehan all about what flavours he was going to get, with which toppings, and did they think there might be red sauce? This, Jehan realized, was why they loved being around humans so much. They were so innocent and good natured. The only human they knew at any length was Gavroche, but he was so wonderful that Jehan thought it might just be enough to know him forever. 

Then, with a pang, they remembered Courfeyrac.

Sweet Courfeyrac, who described everything so vividly and with such deep personal love. It was something you would never find among those of Jehan’s own kind. Jehan didn't know why they felt so strongly, but they embraced it. They had spent too many years being cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Kerching' was a CBBC show from the late '90's, and my brother's favourite. If you can't tell by this point, I am English and have spent approx. 1 week in the US. If I get any of the references wrong, please forgive. I am a poor bean on toast, and mostly ignorant of the American ways.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for rape in this chapter. The actual act itself is not included, but there is lots of implications, so please be careful.

When Grantaire emerged from his room that night, there was a veritable chill in the air – the windows in the bathroom were misted over and Grantaire’s exhales (He breathed out of habit, nothing more. Also, it’d look rather strange if someone noticed he hadn’t taken in a breath for five minutes) came out in puffs of smoke. Wiping away the condensation from the mirror, Grantaire stared at himself. If it were possible, he was certain there would be bags under his eyes. 

The sink was dirty. Jehan constantly kept things clean, but their bathroom was like a whole new world. Cluttered with various products and hair dyes – Jehan had, surprisingly, dark hair by nature, but they didn’t like to talk about that – the whole place was reminiscent of a crack den. Grantaire decided to ignore the mess a little longer.

Instead, in the reflection, Grantaire saw the thing he had become. Almost as if in a trance, he pushed his blackish hair up away from the top of his neck, and saw the two little dots that had ruined his life.

At the time, he had wanted so badly to die.

He still remembered it, or most of it. It was not a short transition- Montparnasse had told him so, but he was too terrified by the prospect to really absorb anything his sire had said. It was so vivid, at the start. Maybe if he hadn’t upset Montparnasse, if he’d been good…

The night he died was cold. The brothel had no need for heating – its customers did not feel the cold, so why waste money on the comfort of whores? Grantaire was waiting in the master suite, the one he had not left ever since Montparnasse had decided to- to keep Grantaire for himself. The thought made Grantaire feel dirty. 

He was kneeling on hard ground next to the four poster bed, shivering and hungry. Montparnasse only fed him when he was good, and he’d done something or other to upset him - so he starved. Because his blood did not taste as good when he was malnourished, he was punished for that, too. The cycle was never ending. He fingered the dirty bed sheet that hung down the sides, twisting it around his fingers as he waited. It kept him grounded.

There was nothing in the room apart from the furnishings. A long red rug covered the floor, and the small windows were hung with red velvet drapes. A cheap chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting an ugly yellow light down on to Grantaire’s yellowed face. 

When Montparnasse came in through the door silently, Grantaire dropped his head. He couldn’t handle Montparnasse like this – in his experience, he would take three hundred angry Montparnasses over one quiet one. 

Grantaire shut his eyes tightly as he felt Montparnasse’s hand tug sharply at Grantaire’s inky curls, forcing his head up. “Look at me, whore,” said Montparnasse. 

Grantaire tried to breathe and open his eyes at the same time. He failed.

Montparnasse slapped him. It was all Grantaire’s fault, really. He hadn’t looked at his master quickly enough, he hadn’t-

“Look at me.” Montparnasse commanded.

Grantaire met the eyes of the man – the thing – that he couldn’t escape from. He didn’t know how to. Montparnasse smiled. His eyes were cold.

“Get on the bed.”

Grantaire did not move. 

“Get on the fucking bed.” Montparnasse used his strength to yank him onto the covers, his nails digging in to Grantaire’s sides. Grantaire tried to look impassive, but his shaking hands betrayed him. He wanted to grab the sheet and cover his shame.

Montparnasse was quick to undress as Grantaire pushed himself further up the bed, until he had nowhere else to run. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want to do this again.

“Please, don’t.” Grantaire begged.

“Shut up!” Montparnasse spat. “You will only speak when you are spoken to, am I clear?” Grantaire nodded, feeling his eyes begin to sting. He kicked his legs out in defense. He had no idea how to stop this.

Montparnasse grabbed at Grantaire roughly. “Oh no, not tonight.” said Montparnasse, pulling Grantaire onto his back, squeezing so tight Grantaire knew that it’d bruise. “You will be good for me.” Their eyes locked. No, no, no. 

It was too late. Grantaire could already feel the persuasion working its way into his brain. “You will not move, not unless I tell you to.” Montparnasse commanded, paralysing Grantaire with his eyes. The submission brought shame to his chest. There was nothing worse than being made to do something using persuasion – it made you feel like you wanted it. Grantaire didn’t want it. He would rather die than have to do this again.

The rest was too painful to recount, but it would always come to this: he was too weak to stop it.

When the end came, as it inevitably did, Grantaire did not know how long it took to die. 

 

*

“Goood morning, starshine!” Courfeyrac called as Enjolras limped into the room. “Guess what I’ve made? Pancakes!”

“Great.” Enjolras said flatly, but there was a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“A good start would be getting some batter in the frying pan, as opposed to down your front,” Combeferre said, causing Courfeyrac to start at the amount of food on his shirt. Turning to the newcomer, he added, “You really shouldn’t be walking around yet, Enjolras.” 

Combeferre was positioned at the breakfast bar, still wearing his flannel pajama bottoms. A cup of coffee was in one of his hands, a newspaper in the other. His glasses looked like they’d been on all night, but Enjolras knew better. Combeferre without his glasses was like a plant without roots. Enjolras smiled to himself.

“I’m okay, really.” Enjolras promised. He came over to peer at the frying pan. “Smells good, Courf.” 

Courfeyrac smiled brightly, knowing that this was the closest Enjolras was going to come to a thank you. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, “Somebody – cough cough, Combeferre, cough cough, has eaten all of the Nutella.”

Combeferre went bright red. “I’m pretty sure you’re actually meant to cough when you do that, not just say the word.”

“Okay, Nutella thief, whatever you say.” Courfeyrac flipped a pancake.

Enjolras smiled at the exchange and took a seat next to Combeferre, trying not to wince as he sat down. Combeferre watched him, but did not comment, and Enjolras was grateful. Courfeyrac, meanwhile bopped to an invisible beat, sliding a pancake onto a plate. He laid it down in front of Enjolras, who began digging in heartily. 

“I was here first.” Combeferre looked betrayed.

“Yes, but you’re also the pancake cynic who stole and did not replace the most treasured item in this house, so I think you can go last.” 

Combeferre began atoning for all his sins in an attempt to be gifted with some sustenance. Combeferre was not the type to beg, but his argument was suspiciously whiney. Enjolras decided not to get involved, and instead chose to focus on the taste of the pancake – he felt oddly out of himself since the night before. 

“Joly said that you’ll be feeling a little rough for the next couple of days, even if you’re able to physically hunt. Apparently demon wounds take a little longer to recover than you’d expect.”

Enjolras turned to look towards Combeferre. His friend had his eyebrow raised in that usual way of his. “I’m just fine,” Enjolras assured him. 

Combeferre looked sceptical. “You need to stay home today, anyway.”

Enjolras groaned. “Don’t worry, Enjy,” said Courfeyrac. “I’m home today, too. I can tell you all about my nightly exploits.”

Enjolras groaned louder. Courfeyrac patted him on the head.

“You’re in a good mood this morning, Courfeyrac. How come?” Asked Combeferre. 

“I will have you know, my dear Combeferre, that I met someone very special last night.”

Enjolras perked up. “You met a fellow hunter? Where are they from? Did you talk to them about our caus-”

Courfeyrac bit his lip, “Well,” he said, “Hunter is a bit of a, well, vague term.”

“Courfeyrac,” There was a warning in Combeferre’s voice.

“They’re brilliant, okay?” He said, reminded of his meeting the night before, and smiled goofily. “They’re tiny and they work in a bookshop and they like Scarlett Johansson, Combeferre.”

“You know that we can’t mix up civilians in our lives,” said Combeferre, “They only get hurt.”

Enjolras frowned. “You mean to say that they’re not-?”

“-Entirely knowledgeable about the intricacies of dark magic and protection devices? Not exactly, no.”

“You can’t.” Enjolras said. “You can’t date a civilian. You know that’s not what we do.”

“No, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said gently, “That’s not what you do.” He transferred the cooked pancake onto a plate and set it out in front of Combeferre, who started to eat. “And anyway,” He murmured, pouring more batter onto the pan, “I didn’t get their number. They left before I could.”

“Good,” Enjolras murmured. 

Combeferre kicked him under the table. “Maybe that was for the best,” he said. “How would you feel if they got hurt, or killed? What if one of us died trying to protect them? You know it can’t work out.”

Courfeyrac knew this would happen. Before, he’d been content with one night stands – but he hadn’t had a relationship since high school, goddammit. He wanted to go to bed with someone and know that they’d be there when he woke up. He wanted to do domestic – he wanted date nights and movies and cuddles and someone to wear his shirts in the morning. Hunting was a lonely life, he knew that, and he wouldn’t give it up, not for anyone. He just wanted to love someone, and for it to be easy. God knows, he had to try.

“I’m just sick of being single,” Courfeyrac sighed, looking between them, “No offense, I just – hunting isn’t so great for my love life.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Combeferre blushed, choking out a, “Don’t worry, Courf. Maybe you’ll see them again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras attempted to chip in, in that awkward way of his, and Courfeyrac knew that he must look pretty pathetic, but at least he wasn't either of them. It'd be a miracle before they sorted that out. “They might turn up… You never know.”

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” Courfeyrac wiped his hands on his apron, “You two are my brothers. But I really liked them.” He admitted.

“It’s okay, Courf. You’ll find him- her?” Combeferre asked.

“Them – they go by them.” 

“Them, then.” Combeferre smiled sincerely. “Now, where is my pancake?” The triumvate all laughed gratefully for the change in topic, even Enjolras, and the tension in the room suddenly evaporated like a gust of wind.

*

It was nights like that which were the worst. 

Eponine couldn’t, however much she wanted to, just stop existing.

The city lights were too bright, and called her.  
She walked down the street, her feet not making a sound on the sidewalk. Across roads, the busy streets that never sleep, cars and taxis passing straight though her. Sometimes the people inside shivered, as if going through her had affected them somehow, like something deep down knew that they had just passed through a ghost. Sometimes they didn’t.

She no longer could shiver, but if she could have, she would have. Only having three people to talk to was the loneliest thing in the world. Three people to laugh with – three people to smile at, to share stories with. She didn’t think anyone would want to hear her stories, or Grantaire’s. But she could listen to other people.

That’s what she found herself doing, after hours of mindless wondering. The rough corners of New York did not scare her; she was the darkest presence there – there was nothing to be afraid of. But she did not like it there. It was too seedy, too reminiscent of the past. She much preferred bars, where she could listen to people; there, she could pretend that she was alive. That she had friends that went to bars and laughed and then went home and sex with someone she trusted – the kind of person who had been to college, the kind that read the New York Times and drank expensive coffees. The kind that wouldn’t throw her aside. 

She would never admit that to Grantaire, though.

The bar she found herself in that night was not one of her usual haunts, despite being so close to their apartment – it was too hipster-y, too liberal, which is exactly what she wanted for herself.

There were no stories to be found, but Jehan came here often, so she sometimes came along, in the cool comfort of their messenger bag or hidden in their hair. There were no date rapes she had to prevent, no bar brawls to watch, and for that, Eponine was glad. Jehan was one of the only people left for her to protect. Eponine didn’t like the atmosphere of dirty places, not particularly, but it was interesting, at least. This hopelessness made her too vulnerable. She couldn’t move on from this world, so which malevolent God had the will to torment her further?

“The point is, Combeferre, we can’t afford to wait. We’ve had tip-offs that there are vampires in this area. Not to mention the fact that poltergeist activity is through the roof. What happens when another person goes missing? There have been at least four reported deaths just this month- ”

“I appreciate that, I really do, Enjolras. The fact is that we just do not have the kind of arsenal to take anything big on, yet. Not while we’re still establishing our base here.”

Holy shit.

“What if we organised our objectives more carefully? We know, for example, that a prominent vampire leader has moved back into the area. If we could just find out where they are…” The blonde man, who appeared to be the leader, frowned. 

The other pushed his glasses up his nose. Cute. “And we won’t be able to do that until we have set down grounds here. This is a big change from Chicago, you know.”

Blondie nodded. “I know, but there needs to be some direct action soon. We can’t just hunt nomads, even though they need to be eradicated too. There needs to be something organised.”

“I have nearly finished my substance. Wait until then, at least.”

“You say that it will effectively kill demons with one hit?” Blondie leaned forward, eyes shining.

“It will. I have discussed it in great detail with Joly, and Bahorel has offered to test it to prove its effectiveness.”

“The compounds are made from…?”

“Nothing legal.” The man smiled, managing to make talking about death as mundane as talking about the weather. 

Oh, shit. These guys were serious, weren’t they? No-one was coming for her friends or her brother, not while she was around. They’d have to burn her bones and salt her to the ground before anyone touched them. Eponine knew that rumours circulated quickly amongst the immortal, but she didn’t expect this to be true. By the looks of it, there were about eight or nine of them. Eponine didn’t even know groups this big even existed.

Eponine moved away from the men. There was no way in hell she was staying here, a fox in a forest full of hounds. Even though they wouldn’t be able to sense her, there was something terrifying about remaining here, in the lion’s den. Casting one last glance towards the men hunched over a table together, she passed through the door, and stole away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey,”

Jehan looked up from the book they had their head stuck in to see Grantaire standing on the other side of the counter. He was dressed in his usual attire: paint stained shirt, scruffy jeans and the scarf and beanie Jehan had knitted for him. But there was something nervous about his expression. 

“Hello, Grantaire.” 

“Would you able to do something for me?”

Jehan smiled. “I might be. What are the terms?”

Grantaire looked quizzical for a moment, until he finally clicked. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” he ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just – I’m going to find them tonight. So I won’t have time to - I’m all out of, um. Blood. Could you find some?”

Jehan laughed, relieved. “Of course,” Grantaire nodded in thanks, and shuffled his feet. “What did Eponine say?” Jehan put their book down and leaned against the shelf behind the counter, looking apprehensive.

“She found them at the Musain,” Grantaire shrugged, finally comfortable with the subject matter at hand. “It took her all night, near enough. I don’t even think she was expecting to see them there.”

“Are they-?”

“They’re the shit, all right. A whole group of them, all of them hunters. She said that she’d never seen anything as organised or experienced. You remember Chicago?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“It was them, Jehan.”

Jehan brought their hand up over their mouth. So many lives lost…

“I don’t think New York has seen anything as bad in my lifetime.”

Hunters were nomadic. They were always nomadic. That’s why there were still immortals walking about- that, and the fact that hunters had near enough died out. Alone, a hunter was beatable – not an easy feat, but beatable, if you were a vampire. Any more than one hunter, well – you weren’t usually alive to tell the tale of seeing more than one. 

Usually, a general rule, it was down-right dangerous to associate with the immortal, but Jehan couldn’t help feel a stab of pity for those who had been slaughtered. Even though they had wiped their hands of their kind long ago, there was still something so senseless in slaughter. They were not monsters. Not all of them.

Jehan looked pensively out onto the street, through the large bay windows at the front of the store. There had been a steady stream of rain all morning; the glass was partially misted over but the individual raindrops were still visible. The store was warm, with Jehan’s boss opting for more ambient lighting instead of overhead artificiality. They appreciated it, especially on a day like today. It made them feel more… homey.

Grantaire looked into Jehan’s eyes. “I have to go, tonight.” 

“No, you do not.”

“You know what we decided, Jehan. If I don’t go to them, they’ll come to us. Eventually, anyway.”

Jehan wrung their hands together. “Please don’t get yourself killed,”

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire smiled, “No vampire in their right mind would attend a meeting held by hunters.”

“So why are you?” 

“I’m obviously not in my right mind, am I?”

“If they managed to take down Chicago, they can take down you.”

“I’m good, you know that. What’s fooling a few humans?”

“Everything, Grantaire. Everything rests on this.”

“Jehan.” Grantaire warned.

They opened their mouth to say more, but saw the expression on Grantaire’s face and nodded, deciding to back off. “Be careful.”

Jehan was being completely serious, but Grantaire’s face shifted to smile at them indulgently. “I’ll try. You won’t come looking if it all goes wrong, will you?”

“No.” Jehan said. “But that’s not going to happen, right?”

“I’ll keep safe, don’t worry.” Grantaire tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the counter. The air was still for a few moments.

“I don’t like this,” 

“Neither do I,” Grantaire sighed. “But it’s do or die, my friend. It’s do or die.”

*

When Grantaire arrived anywhere, he made it his job to acquaint himself with the bar. He didn’t really drink anything other than blood and alcohol – he couldn’t, in fact. Teas and coffees were something he could stand, sometimes, if he tried. But nothing more than that. And it took a great deal of alcohol to get him half way to buzzed. So the bar was where he stayed.

The bar was the perfect place to suss people out, too. Humans, at least in this form, were not overtly complex creatures. Most of them were so self- involved they’d tell you everything. With everyone else, well, slip them a little liquor and soon they’d spill their secrets all over the counter. Grantaire didn’t begrudge them that. He used to be the same.

In fact, Grantaire happily spent time with humans, he realised. He had spent many a night in his long life in the company of the inebriated. There was a difference, however, between talking to a person and knowing all their intimate details.

Grantaire preferred the first one, if not for his safety, but theirs.

He really, really didn’t like hurting people. 

It kind of sucked that it was in his job description.

“This one’s on me, ‘Chetta,” 

Grantaire looked appraisingly towards the source of the voice. A huge man with dark skin stood next to where he was sat at the bar, dressed in a form fitting t-shirt that showed off the man’s tattoos. Judging by the huge muscles he was toting, Grantaire decided not to cross this guy. Ever.

“You don’t mind right?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not about to refuse a free drink, man.”

“Great,” The black guy said, “Anyway, dude, you look like you need it.” 

Grantaire mock scowled. “And there I thought you were flirting with me.” 

Grantaire knew this guy had to be out of his mind. Offering someone a free drink was strange enough, but here he was, telling him that he didn’t look good. _I can’t not look good,_ Grantaire thought somewhat bitterly.

“Nah, dude, I’m straight. Sorry.” 

“Shame.” Grantaire smiled.

“I’m Bahorel.” 

“Grantaire, but friends call me R.” 

“Can I call you R?”

“That depends if you’re a friend or not.”

“Well,” said Bahorel, “I only bought you a drink. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Grantaire laughed. The sound felt good in his throat. “Touché.”

Bahorel said he did something with law, which surprised Grantaire. After all, when you’ve been around for as long as Grantaire had, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge life choices. Just look at him.

Bahorel was funny – crass, but not rude. Grantaire found he had more in common with him than he’d originally thought at first glance, but knew that this was only going to be a temporary venture. This poor sod had obviously picked the wrong person to talk to – who’d want to talk to Grantaire? He was just waiting for the moment that Bahorel made his excuse and escaped.

“Listen man, me and a couple of my mates are planning on going out tonight. Just around and about, you know, nothing special. Fancy coming along?”

“What was that about you being straight again?” Grantaire smirked, nudging Bahorel in the ribs mockingly, trying to hide his surprise.

“Ha-ha.” Bahorel said, rolling his eyes. “In your dreams, mate.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“I’m meeting them in five minutes, so tag along if you feel like it. No pressure.”

Grantaire was tempted to get mad, to make some biting remark about how he didn’t need charity, but, well, Bahorel was… well, he was good. And he was human. Grantaire didn’t have any human friends. 

No, he had a job to do. This was not the place to socialize; socializing would not protect them, when the time came. Grantaire had to say, on reflection, that it was a stupid plan for them to go and walk into danger’s mouth when there was no guarantee that they would be found.

Experience told him otherwise.

Grantaire had lived as a part of this world for too long – he knew that people like him did not just survive purely by chance. Everyone he had ever known – apart from _him_ \- was gone, either by another vampire’s hand or that of a hunter. He knew that he should be among them, but somehow he had survived, even though logic told him that he should have died years ago.

That was what happened to vampires who flaunted their power.

But, well, he hadn’t known people – humans- in so long.

So that was how he found himself, half an hour later, grasping the warm hands of the living. Bahorel had introduced him to some of his friends; Joly and Bossuet were easy to remember, as they were the first cute couple Grantaire had ever seen that weren’t annoying. The other guy was ginger, and did some cool artwork, apparently. Grantaire promised to check him out – his name was Feuilly or something.

The last person Grantaire met that night was not easily forgotten. He came bursting into the Musain, ten minutes later than everyone else, greeting his friends loudly and waving when he saw them. Grantaire wasn’t really sure what to make of him, not until he introduced himself.

“Hey!” The man said, a smile lighting up his bright features. Grantaire couldn’t tell, at first, whether he was being genuine. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

“The one and only,” said Bahorel.

“This is Grantaire,” Joly supplied. 

“’Sup,” Grantaire said, his lips quirking up at the newcomer. He was dressed almost as badly as Jehan, but on him, it looked – what was the word? Dapper. The bow tie, which Grantaire hadn’t seen in a good fifty years, suited the mexican, in a surprisingly non-tacky way. Grantaire would’ve been impressed if that was in his capacity.

“Bahorel, you’re finally listening to me when I tell you to bring hot people out with us!” Courfeyrac said excitedly, obviously not grasping that Grantaire could actually hear him. Quirking an eyebrow, Grantaire gave Feuilly a look that said, does he usually do this? Feuilly nodded.

“And he’s so _pretty_.”

“You can put your dick away now, Courf,” Feuilly said, rolling his eyes.

Courfeyrac pouted, but soon got over himself. He started speaking about this new bar in Soho – it wasn’t new, Grantaire had been over sixty years ago – but he supposed by gentrification’s standards it could be considered a fresh dive. On arrival, the men found the wonder of liquor was a far better icebreaker than simple small talk, at least when it came to Grantaire.

In fact, by bar number three, after the umpteenth round of drinks, Grantaire found himself starting to relax. He did not have the luxury of being reckless – and made sure that he acted just drunk enough to seem human. But he felt safe enough to be himself.

“I am officially dead.” Courfeyrac announced, flopping down on the sofa next to Grantaire. 

“Opposed to… unofficially dead?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Do you think there’s a qualifier?”

“I dunno man, it’s not something that usually crosses my mind.” _Liar._

“Me neither. But I’m officially dead regardless.”

Grantaire internally rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, a),” Courfeyrac was slurring a lot by this point, failing to notice his fancy cocktail sloshing over the rim of the glass, “I have had… three? Four? Hours sleep in the past 48 hours, and,” his voice dropped, “I have met the most beautiful person ever and I will never see them again.”

Grantaire sat there, only slightly bemused. “Haven’t you chatted up at least ten people in here alone?”

“That’s not the point, R.”

“Right?” Grantaire stood up. “What is the point, then?” 

“The point is- The point is-”

“You’re really trashed and need a distraction?”

There was something unreadable in Courfeyrac, some small unpleasant emotion bubbling to the surface, gone in the blink of an eye. “You have no idea, my friend.”

Grantaire hauled Courfeyrac up, taking his hand to drag him away. “Come and dance with me, then.”

*

Later, when the sun peaked the horizon and all the bars had shut, the men parted ways. It was nice – the evening felt good, like a shot of warm whiskey. Grantaire liked this group; they already felt like friends. 

And if he stared at his phone a little when he got back, wondering if it was too early to text any of them, then it was his secret to share. 

The screen lit up with a new message, and Grantaire smiled to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if that was a little rough, guys. Writing it felt like an uphill struggle. I was never going to be happy with it, but here you go. Happy birthday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's so short I struggled a lot, but here it is, because why not?

The sun was fully setting the next evening by the time all three of them were in the apartment at the same time. They piled themselves onto the musty sofa Jehan loved so much; bundling blankets around them if not for the warmth but for the steady, comforting weight of the wool.

“Which human eccentricity do you want to put on tonight?” Grantaire said, flicking through the channels on the tv.

“Fuck you, I was human once, they’re my eccentricities you’re talking about,” Eponine reached over to try and snatch the remote out of his hand.

He pulled his hand up and away from her. “Ah-ah-ah.” It was just common sense not to allow Eponine anywhere near the remote control. She’d never give it back. “I was human too and I can still admit that they’re strange creatures.”

“I’ve never been human and you’re all quite strange.”

“This, coming from the person who once glamoured our entire apartment to look like a sixteenth-century torture chamber complete with a fire because they, and I quote, ‘wanted to see how effective iron mesh mitts were’.” Grantaire gave Jehan a pointed look.

“That was _one time!_ ”

“Oh, okay, right, so coming home to see you standing dementedly in the middle of the room heating up a metal rod only happened _once_.”

“Can you two losers shut up so we can put the film on?” While he was distracted, Eponine had selected a film from their unwatched list.

“Oh my god, we are not watching _twilight_.” Grantaire buried his head into the cushion. “Stake me, please, before it gets too much.”

“You’re such a poser,” Jehan teased, “You know you love it.”

“Of course, I forgot, sparkly humans prancing around pretending to be simultaneously mysterious and dangerous is totally something I want to watch.”

“You know, you remind me a bit of Edward Cullen sometimes, R.” Eponine smirked.

“Stop.”

“Oh wah, don’t come near me, I’m a monster!” Eponine cried, flinging herself back against the armrest.

“Oh Bella, Bella.” Grantaire said tonelessly.

“She’s right,” Jehan piped up, “I could lend you some glitter if you want.”

“Come near me with glitter and I will cut your hair in your sleep.”

Jehan laughed, flipping their long hair into Grantaire’s mouth, making him splutter. Eponine rolled her eyes and started the movie, settling herself into Grantaire’s chest, only feeling his warmth as a detached sensation, like being suspended.

On screen, Edward murmured about being the bad guy, but sat here nestled with her two best friends, Eponine couldn’t imagine him being more wrong.

*

Across town, in a dirty loft, completely forgettable if not for the large stained window on the south side, stood two men over a stranger.

“Please, let me go. Please- I have a little brother, he’s only ten– please.”

Montparnasse stalked over to the human. He could taste his sweat from across the room – on his tongue like weed and lies.

“It’s a shame you won’t see him again.” Montparnasse grinned as the man’s eyes widened for a split second. A flick of the wrist and the human slumped in the chair he was tied to. “Gueulemer, clean up this mess, will you?”

Montparnasse turned to the window, and looked across the skyline. Another dead end. He was starting to think he’d never see his property again.

“Sir?” Gueulemer’s gruff voice rang across the empty expanse of the room. Montparnasse turned to see his beefy hand clutching the burner he’d given him. “Babet’s found something.”

*

The first meeting that Grantaire attended of Bahorel’s student activist group was eventful, to say the least.

The Musain looked the same as he remembered, but today the lighting was softer, more ambient. Grantaire checked his phone again to remind himself of what Bahorel had said.

_From Bahorel: Yeah, man, just come through to the back room._

Luckily, the bar was less busy tonight. He made his way through to the back, and pushed open the door that read _For Meetings Only._

And standing there, like the joke Grantaire’s life was, was the beautiful hunter from the club.

Of course, he looked different now. His black hunting clothes were replaced by a t-shirt and a red cardigan. Instead of the heavy boots Grantaire had seen last, he wore converse. Seeing him now was like looking into a strange paradox.

A really, really hot paradox.

Grantaire’s face burned. He stuttered out some unintelligible noises and went to hastily exit when-

“R!”

Oh. So he did have the right place. Of course his new friends would also be hunters. Because that’s how much God appeared to hate him. Right.

Bahorel embraced him in a hug. “How are you doing, man?” He said, and without waiting for a response, turned to the rest of the room. “Guys, this is R.”

The rest of the people in the room – including Joly and the others he’d already met – responded in varying levels of enthusiasm. Courfeyrac bounded over and immediately started talking about an incident that had happened to him at work, sitting Grantaire down next to him.

Meanwhile, Grantaire was having a minor breakdown. He couldn’t be here – he couldn’t be friends with these people. Because whenever hunters and the supernaturals mixed, people died.

And judging by the numbers in the room, it was probably going to be him.

“Can we get started?” Beautiful angel said with an intonation of annoyance.

The men in the room immediately quietened. Grantaire had to remind himself to breathe. To tap his foot. To show the others that he was human, too.

Sensing Grantaire’s discomfort, Courfeyrac leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry about Enjolras. He’s all bark and no bite.”

Grantaire gave him a watery grin, knowing full well the extent of Enjolras’ bite. The name suited him – aristocratic, like his brow or his cheekbones or his nose or the pout of his lips…

He was so fucked.

“As I was saying,” Enjolras continued, oblivious to Grantaire’s inner panic, “We’ve made some real progress in this area. After our recent survey, over 80% of female students on campus have said that they would now feel comfortable to carry out self-defence in the case of preventing sexual assult-”

“Don’t you think it would be more effective to teach the men _not_ to rape in the first place?” Grantaire said, because obviously he had a death wish. | _What are you thinking, Grantaire? Are you trying to get yourself killed?_

Enjolras’ face immediately configured into one of annoyance. “And you would have experience on this, would you, Mr…?”

“Grantaire. And no, obviously, seeing as I’m not a woman,” Grantaire smirked as Enjolras flushed red. “But surely it makes more sense to teach those assholes to keep their dicks to themselves before the women even need to think about self-defence?”

“Your point would be valid if there was some way to reach out to these young men and educate them on rape prevention. But while that’s unavailable-”

“What about reaching out to frats? Rich white boy to rich white boy.”

Enjolras’ face was steadily growing hotter and more agitated. Everyone else in the room exchanged helpless glances. “And I suppose you would rather do this than help the defenceless-“

“I’d maybe ask an actual woman before calling anyone defenceless – let’s not put the burden on the victim here.” There was no backing out now. If Grantaire’s heart still beat it would be loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“While that’s a nice thought, sir, women are being attacked every day-”

“All the more reason for men to have education-”

“-and I think it’s better to provide short term aid in these situations, quite frankly! Look, Mr Grantaire, it’s blatantly obvious that you do not have any inkling to what you’re talking about, or have ever even thought about what you’re saying, because it’s clear that you’ve never been assaulted before- ”

“Enjolras.” Hot glasses hissed.

“As I’m pretty sure you would want to protect yourself from an imminent danger that may actually help people stop themselves from being raped before having a conversation with your rapist!” Enjolras was short of breath by this point, beautiful and raging.

Grantaire stood up. “Maybe you should ask a woman whether she wants to have to protect herself when she could have never been put in that situation in the first place.” He grabbed his coat and quickly walked out of the room, nodding at Bahorel on the way, before poking his head back through the door. “And who says I haven’t been assaulted before?”

*

From Unknown: dude that was awesome!!!! :D :D  
From Unknown: that was the most exciting meeting of les amis EVER!!!!  
From Unknown: u shud have seen enjolras’ face man it was priceless  
From Grantaire: um… who is this?  
From Unknown: it’s courf bahorel gave me ur number after enjoolras completely changed the whole plan!!!  
Grantaire: yeah i dont think im going to be welcome again  
From Courfeyrac: r u kidding? enjo is changing the entire scheme now cuz of what u said  
Grantaire: huh?????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about changing the tags for this because as much as I love enj/taire I love enj/taire/ferre even more and i think we could all do with more enj/taire/ferre in our lives
> 
> please let me know what you think?? 
> 
> Also I'm sorry this took so long i'm literally a pile of poop and i had a play to write and school and yeah all excuses literally it's the first one i'm sorry
> 
> i have a tumblr: phoque-boy - come say hi and make me hurry the f up


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *publishes extremely short chapter 3 years late*
> 
> *hides face behind hands*
> 
> (I'm really sorry about any mistakes. I have no beta, so I just have to pray that I haven't accidentally added twelve full stops or written in gaelic or something.)

The next meetings went like this: Grantaire would go along in order (he said) to infiltrate the Abaisse’s network. He told himself that he would arrive at the Musain and, while talking to Joly and Bossuet or Bahorel, try to worm out information. What actually happened was more along the lines of having an argument with Enjolras about some activist nonsense, and then discussing other things like art, or science, with the rest of the group – until Enjolras called them all away to the back room and Grantaire would have be forced to go home, a little guilty voice in his head telling him that he wasn’t trying hard enough.

Grantaire also learnt more about the rag-tag group of friends. It was clear they’d been together quite some time, in that there settled a sort of easiness between them, even in conflict. Grantaire envied that.

Hot Glasses was called Combeferre. He did- well, Grantaire wasn’t quite sure – but he knew about everything. Literally everything. Grantaire couldn’t decide whether it was intimidatingly hot or just… intimidating.

There was another member, Marius, who didn’t speak much unless prompted, but it didn’t matter with a face that expressive. His face had Courfeyrac’s emotional range all by itself. Marius seemed a bit dopey, but Courfeyrac was quick to tell Grantaire that he had a good heart.

Grantaire tried to absorb as much as he could from each and every interaction he had with all of them. Little by little, he learnt something new. Joly was afraid of deep water. Courfeyrac had six pairs of tap shoes, “just in case”. Bosseut once spilled his coffee on Hilary Clinton, didn’t recognise her, and offered to pay her dry cleaning bill. Marius’ parents were dead.

The way Grantaire found that one out still weighed on his chest. Of course, Grantaire’s parents died half a century ago – but it was different for Marius, who was so shy, so unsure of himself. Grantaire had been walking to his studio when he’d run into Courfeyrac and Marius, who were going to meet Enjolras for coffee.

“Come on, R, please come with us!” Courfeyrac said, turning on the puppy-dog eyes.

Marius smiled dopily at the clouds, “Yeah, R,” He said absently.

“I’m paying.” Courfeyrac said in a sing-song voice.

Grantaire nudged Marius. “Bet your parents love him.”

Marius’ turned to look at Grantaire, face blooming white. “Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said quietly, “Marius’ parents are dead.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, man.” Grantaire patted Marius’ shoulder, realized how patronizing it must look, and dropped his hand, coughing. Marius smiled.

“Me too.”

At the coffee shop, Courfeyrac bounded over to Enjolras, who had a bun piled sleepily on his head. Grantaire saw Courfeyrac say something, then Enjolras look at Grantaire funnily. He turned back towards the counter.

“Doesn’t he want anything?”

Marius put a pack of skittles on the till, leaning in conspiratorially. “He’s allergic to the red ones.”

*

At the fifth meeting, Grantaire was sat next to Combeferre, with Enjolras on his other side. Grantaire tried to quash the part of him that was excited by this, besides, Enjolras was sulking. They’d already argued during that meeting– something ridiculous about Fairtrade coffee. The formal part of the session had ended and Grantaire was savouring the time that he had with his friends. Well. Grantaire hoped they were friends.

“But the thing I really hope we touch on next is secondary education,” Said Combeferre, “Middle schools are often where real gender norms are introduced and reinforced.”

Grantaire leaned forward. “But how would you do that? I mean, surely it’s like, I don’t know-”

“Applying a plaster to a stab wound?” Combeferre nodded to himself. “Yes, it’s a hard thing to approach. The reality is that teachers are not simply being paid enough to care.”

“And you think paying them more will, what? Stop their divorce or cure their alcoholism?”

“At least he _cares_ ” Enjolras said, sulkily.

“Sorry for not being able to afford gold-encrusted magic beans.” Grantaire took a sip of his beer.

“Now, Enjolras.” Combeferre said, obviously trying to diffuse the tension that had settled between them. “What did Marx say?”

“From each according to ability, all right, I understand.” Enjolras recited, the smile returning to his face.

“Hey, Combeferre, do you have the entire manifesto memorized?” Grantaire asked.

“One hundred and eighty pages is far too much to remember-“

“He knows at least four-fifths of it. He’s just bitter that he doesn’t know all of it, that’s all.” Enjolras nudged Combeferre, who flushed with pleasure. Enjolras had already turned to look at Grantaire, but Grantaire didn’t think Enjolras would notice that his best friend liked him if it was plastered to Combeferre’s forehead.

“I didn’t think you’d know of the Communist Manifesto, Grantaire.” Enjolras looked genuinely surprised. Grantaire’s heart sunk.

“Well, I’ll have you know I can be, on occasion, more than a pretty face.”

Enjolras flushed. “I- I didn’t-“

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Grantaire smiled crookedly. He didn’t think that Enjolras could like him any less - and now, on top of that, he thought that he was stupid. Great.

“Well said, Grantaire.” Combeferre looked at Enjolras. “He’s just bitter because he’s so uninformed about the world - he thought James and Dave Franco were the same person until last year.”

“I thought we’d agreed that we were never going to mention that ever again!”

Combeferre leaned back in his chair. “Courfeyrac would have mentioned it anyway, don’t get upset.”

“You’ll have to watch him, Combeferre,” Grantaire picked up his drink, gesturing towards Enjolras. “It looks like someone’s going to be crying himself to sleep tonight.”

As Grantaire laughed, he looked at Combeferre, whose features had become soft at the sight of Enjolras huffing and smiling. If it wasn’t so painful to look at, Grantaire would have wanted to freeze the moment forever.

“Hey, R.” Bahorel bounded over. “Wanna play pool?”

Grantaire’s eyes darted between the two men either side of him. He really didn’t want to leave them, not when Combeferre was looking so beautiful and bright and Enjolras like a forest fire. Not when he could listen to them discuss things – all things, anything – all day. The fact that they weren’t dating, never mind dating one another, was absolutely baffling.

He couldn’t like them both like _that_ , could he?

Anyway, Grantaire tried to tell himself, it didn’t matter, because if they knew who he really was, they’d hate him. They’d kill him and spit on his body. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

“Maybe later, ‘Rel.”

Bahorel shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Grantaire sighed inwardly. _If only I could._  
*

Enjolras didn’t understand. No-one made Combeferre smile like that.

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras hissed into the darkness. They were at an abandoned loft in the upper east side, where there had been complaints of strange noises from the occupants below. Typical poltergeist activity, and nothing ridiculously difficult to deal with, as long as they weren’t grievously stupid. But it required a lot of waiting around.

“Yes, Darling?” Courfeyrac purred from somewhere close behind him.

“Don’t scare me like that.” Enjolras said. He felt around for his flashlight on his waist, and checked his EMF meter. Normal. “Set up the equipment while I evaluate the area.”

“Hello MTV, and welcome to my crib,” Courfeyrac said, somewhat manically under the glare of his torch. He spread his arms, flinching as he caught a cobweb.

“You can’t make that joke every single time we go on a stakeout, Courf.”

“Just try and stop me. Combeferre isn’t here to save you now.”

At the mention of Combeferre, Enjolras flushed, still conflicted over what had happened earlier. Grantaire was a new addition to the activist group they had set up. The Abaisse was set up for three reasons – the first, they needed a cover for their sponsers, the second: that they were able to meet en masse without suspicion. The third – well, they were very passionate about social justice.

The excuse given to the other non-hunters in the group was simple: their work was highly dangerous and in the case of the government or law getting involved in their political work, only the inner circle were allowed into the back room. Musichetta did an excellent job of keeping out the curious, and, as she owned the place, she was able to give the Abaisse absolute reign over whatever she liked.

Enjolras wasn’t sure how far the lie would stretch, though. The biggest thing they’d done recently was a protest about sexual assault - nothing to call the FBI about. But no one seemed to be pushing the story regarding their privacy.

In any case, Grantaire made Enjolras uneasy.

Enjolras wasn’t sure why: after all, he was friends with Bahorel, and Courfeyrac liked him – Enjolras trusted their judgement. Apart from the fact that Grantaire clearly disagreed with all of Enjolras’ ideals to the point of mockery, there wasn’t anything to – except –

“Why does Grantaire make Combeferre smile like that?”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing, earning a loud _shh_ from Enjolras. They were going to be here all night if he kept up the volume. “Oh, my dearest Enjolras. Oh my.”

“Courfeyrac.”

“No, no! Stop it! You’re killing me.”

“Don’t mock me.” Enjolras grit his teeth.

“It’s very hard not to when you act like this.” Courfeyrac clapped his hands together and slapped his knee, his whole body spasming. Enjolras wouldn’t be surprised if he started crying.

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras pressed on, “It’s been happening more and more. Every time I see them together I feel this tightness in my chest and it’s like I want to burst out of myself but I can’t.” Enjolras shivered, rubbing his arms. “I feel like there’s something bad going on. And I would ask ‘Ferre about it, but every time I’m about to I just… change the subject. I don’t know why. I think I should talk to Joly, if not a medical professional.”

“A medical professional! My god,” Courfeyrac said to himself, “I don’t think you need a doctor, Enjolras.” He beamed at his friend, before turning to cast the flashlight slowly around the room.

“Then why is it I the way I do?”

“Have you,” Courfeyrac said slowly, as if he were a small animal that may easily be frightened, “Ever considered that you might be jealous?”

“What?” Enjolras asked, looking up from the dusty floorboards, incredulous. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because… You’re in love with Combeferre?” Courfeyrac said.

“I’m in love with Combeferre?” Enjolras stared at Courfeyrac, dumbfounded. There was a beat as the information sunk in. “I’m in love with Combeferre. I’m in love with- wait-” Enjolras looked more closely at the wooden furniture. “Is that blood?”

“Why would there be blood if-” Courfeyrac’s torch illuminated the wall, up, up. A rotting corpse hung over the dresser suspended by air.

“Feuilly’s going to be so pissed he missed out on this.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That thing with Enjolras thinking James and Dave Franco were the same person? That was me. Literally. For sixteen years. I'm a mess.
> 
> As you can see I went through with it - and have hence changed the tags. I'm not ashamed. There's no-one I love more than Combeferre. Not even my own mum. Sorry, Cath.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras was sat on the couch with Combeferre when it happened. He was replying to an email from one of their sponsors – who referred to themself only as X, which seemed a little dramatic. Combeferre was reading a book, glasses sliding down his nose – but Enjolras didn’t see that. He was pointedly not looking. It was ridiculous, he thought, that he could start acting like such a dork around Combeferre, when before it had been so easy. He assumed that living with someone should make you more immune to them, but no. The world was not fair, not at all, not even a little-

“Are you alright there, Enjolras?” Asked Combeferre, turning towards him. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and it was showing on his chin. His face had this rugged look, like he’d just woken up. Enjolras wanted to just… wrap him up in a blanket. And give him a box of juice. 

But that would be really weird.

“Hmm?”

Combeferre put down his book and looked into Enjolras’ eyes with his deep brown ones. “Are you,” He said pointedly, “All right?”

Enjolras swallowed. “Yeah! Yeah. I just don’t know what to say to this sponsor, that’s all.”

“That overly invested one?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, “He wants answers, and I can’t - I can’t exactly tell him that we have about as close to nothing as there is.”

Combeferre hummed thoughtfully. “Well,” He said measuredly, “That’s not true. We’ve had five successful hunts this past fortnight. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“He’s donating so much, is all – equipment, materials…”

“It’s alright,” said Combeferre, petting his hair. “Something will come through.”

Enjolras nodded, shutting his laptop, while Combeferre shuffled even closer until his side was pressed flush with Enjolras. Enjolras tried to ignore the burning heat in his stomach and leaned in shamelessly.

“You should go to bed, Enj. You’re all tense.”

“I am?” Said Enjolras, one eye opening cautiously.

“Yes, your shoulders feel very tight. You could do with a massage, I think.” Combeferre took his glasses off and snuggled into his shoulder.

“You- You think s-”

“Holy Jesus monkeys on tricycles, you will not believe the night we have had!” Courfeyrac burst through the door, covered head to toe in green slime.

Combeferre shot up. “Is everything all right? Is Feuilly-”

“Feuilly’s fine. A little bit pee-d off, but fine. He’s in the kitche- maybe you don’t want to go in there? For a few minutes.”

“Courfeyrac, what have you done to our kitchen?” Enjolras said sleepily from the couch, grouchy over losing Combeferre’s warm weight.

Courfeyrac came around the side of the room, into the light. From here the full extent of the state he was in could be seen. In addition to the slime, his jeans were completely wet through, mud impressed into the fabric. Enjolras thought that he could see leaves in his hair.

“Now, now, it’s not what I’ve done to the kitchen. It’s what _Feuilly’s_ done to the kitchen.”

“Are you wearing tap shoes?” Enjolras blinked blearily.

“Feuilly?” Combeferre called through the apartment. “Are you alright?”

“Fortunately-” A string of curse words carried through to the living room, “I’m fine – No thanks to- shit- Courfeyrac-”

“What happened?” Asked Combeferre.

“Dark magic happened,” Courfeyrac said cheerily.

“I thought you were doing a salt-n-shake.” Combeferre scrunched up his nose adorably.

“So did we.”

“Christ.”

Enjolras was fully awake now. Dark magic? Not good.

“Definitely not good.” Courfeyrac began pulling off his socks.

“Courf, you couldn’t do that in the restroom, could you?” Combeferre sighed.

“Maybe don’t go into the restroom either?”

Enjolras stood up. “What happened? Where’s Bahorel? Wasn’t he meant to be with you tonight?”

“Bahorel is trying to remove the slime before it bleeds out onto Fifth Avenue.”

“Double Christ.”

“Indeed, my dear Combeferre. Double Christ.” Courfeyrac was now standing in his briefs.

“Is there slime on your-” Enjolras wrangled.

Courfeyrac winked.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

Courfeyrac began a strange little dance, dangling his arms over his head, “It’s in my nature. I’m just a disgusting and slimy kind of gal. It’s kinky, but you know you love it.”

Combeferre looked over at Enjolras, amused and exasperated. Enjolras’ heart soared.

Just then Feuilly walked in, covered head to toe in brown, apparently not even batting an eyelid to the fact that Courfeyrac was stripping in the middle of the lounge. They were a strange bunch. “Has Courfeyrac told you that we encountered a demon trapped between dimensions yet? That it trapped me in the sewage system for twenty minutes?”

Enjolras strained his eyes on Feuilly’s jacket. “Is that-?”

“At this point, nothing would surprise me.”

Courfeyrac gathered up all his soggy clothes, disappearing into the kitchen. “Feuilly! You were meant to wait for my darks before you put your unmentionables in the washing machine.”

“My backpack?”

“It had a condom on it, come on!”

Enjolras was suddenly glad that he had been made to stay home. “How did you get rid of it?” He asked. Combeferre stared at him with wide eyes. “The demon. Not the, um –”

“Faith, trust and pixie dust.” Courfeyrac called through into the room.

“Courfeyrac didn’t know where I’d gone,” Feuilly rubbed some of the dirt from his face, “But was determined to lure this thing out. So he began singing the entire score of Newsies – of course, Bahorel was not going to be the voice of reason – I think he accompanied with beatboxing- ”

“There’s no beatboxing in Newsies.” Said Combeferre.

Courfeyrac re-entered the room. “We weren’t sure if it was an urban ghost or not. We wanted to appear to all ghost genres-”

“-And of course Courfeyrac had to do the tap dancing bit-”

“If you’re not going to try your best you may as well not be on stage-”

“-And he’s going at it like mad, waking up all of 112nd street-”

“I was just about to finish the sequence at the end of Seize The Day-”

“When this massive thing, completely covered in slime, appears through the floor boards.” Feuilly gesticulated the rising of a beast – like the Kraken or Cthulhu.

Enjolras sighed. “And then what happened?”

“Bahorel did.”

“Ah.” Combeferre sat back down on the couch.

Feuilly rocked back on his feet. “It could have been worse,”

“It could have been worse,” Courfeyrac said.

“They could have sung Book of Mormon too,” Feuilly supplied. “Then I would have thrown in my lot and drowned myself in the sewer.”

“Bahorel was trying all these awesome moves – you know that one we learnt from that Jackie Chan film?” Courfeyrac nodded to himself sagely. “Except none of the weapons were working.”

“Luckily he had the right powder on him – the stuff you made, Combeferre?” Feuilly shook his head. “Thank god.”

“You used Combeferre’s powder on dark magic?”

“Blasted the little dude right into the ether.”

“Did you just refer to a greater demon as a ‘little dude’?” Enjolras asked.

“All thanks to Combeferre.”

Combeferre was glowing with pride. Enjolras tried to impress the image into his brain, running his eyes over his features. God, what was he going to do? As if sensing Enjolras’ creepiness, Combeferre looked over and beamed. Enjolras could do nothing but beam back.

The thing was, what Combeferre had managed – he’d never heard of anyone being able to do that before. Combeferre was absolutely brilliant – and this meant – well, they’d found black magic. They were finally getting somewhere. Enjolras could have cried.

“Yo!” Bahorel shouted, the door to the apartment slamming open in the hallway. “What did I miss?” Noises could be heard from the large, muscled man banging into various solid objects, leaving a trail of grunts until he entered the living room.

“Why on earth are you covered in glitter?”

*

“I just feel like we should talk about this.”

“You know what, Enjolras, I totally agree! They should start serving gluten-free options at the shelter- Oh, hi, Grantaire!” Courfeyrac’s attempt to hide the conversation was endearing, considering Grantaire could have heard them from across the room, even with all the noises of the party, if he’d wanted to. He hoped it meant he was a better person because he hadn’t tried.

In all honesty, he was feeling a little guilty. He had left Jehan and Eponine at home that night, and despite saying that there was no need for him to go, they had insisted. A thought flashed that maybe they thought he was going to enjoy himself. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that the party was strictly business only, a niggling voice at the back of his brain kept telling him how much fun he was having. It only served to make him feel worse. “Hi, guys.” Grantaire smiled timidly.

“You know what? I’m suddenly really thirsty. I think I’m going to get a drink. You gals have fun.” Courfeyrac winked, moving away, leaving Enjolras and Combeferre standing in front of him. Grantaire cleared his throat, trying not to combust.

“Combeferre? I don’t think you ever told me what you did at college.”

“Really?” Combeferre blinked. “I was a chemistry major.”

“I totally would have pegged you for a poli sci or philosophy.”

“Enjolras suggested that too.” Combeferre looked sideways at his friend, who was scuffing his feet on the floor. “But I wanted to learn something you couldn’t find in books at the library. For example, Pankhurst. You can find a million articles and books written about her – not to say that she’s the most discussed historical figure, or an unimportant one. It’s simply a lot harder to find books on nuanced chemistry.”

“That’s probably the most logical reason I’ve heard for picking a course.”

“He likes chemistry, too, don’t be fooled.” Enjolras nudged Combeferre.

“That was a big part.”

“You should have seen him growing up. ‘Enjolras! Did you know you can cut some metals like cheese?’”

“Everyone likes chemistry.” Combeferre said matter-of-factly.

“No,” said Grantaire, inclining his head towards the makeshift space in the centre of the room, “Everyone likes dancing.”

“I don’t.” Enjolras said.

“That sounds about right.”

“What?” Enjolras looked between them. Grantaire shrugged, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“You sure you don’t want to come, Enj?” Combeferre looked towards his friend.

“No, I’m fine here.”

Grantaire shrugged, taking Combeferre’s arm and leading him to the dancefloor. Most of the Abaisse were already dancing, as were a few people Grantaire didn’t know, but assumed were hunters as well. Marius looked as if he was about to hit someone in the face, he was flailing about so much. Grantaire smiled, trying not to be afraid, and tugged Combeferre closer.

*

Enjolras tried not to look as Combeferre and Grantaire danced. But they were – well. Enjolras didn’t want to think about how good they looked as a couple. Combeferre relaxed around Grantaire in a way that he never could with Enjolras. He shifted uncomfortably at the sight of them getting touchier, Grantaire’s toned arms almost holding Combeferre’s waist. Enjolras shook his head, trying to clear the disarming thoughts.

“What has Combeferre done to her?”

Joly and Bossuet appeared at Enjolras’ shoulder, both sporting matching t-shirts, with lipstick stains all over their faces.

“You know you two look a little terrifying like that.”

“What?”

“What?” Enjolras asked.

Bosseut leaned in to Joly, “The poor girl is out of her mind.” He whispered loudly.

Joly stuck his hip out, albeit precariously with his cane. “She might be at that. She looks somehow different.”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows. “I do?

“And I think she is up to something,” Joly threw his hand across his chest.

“I- I am?”

Bossuet gasped, delighted. “I do, I am, she talks like-”

“Boys.” Musichetta said sternly, from at least ten feet away. Enjolras didn’t know how she did that. Maybe no-one did.

“Sorry!” They chorused.

“Musichetta keeps telling us not to tease you.” Joly linked his arm with Enjolras.

“How can we help it? You’re so tiny and innocent.”

Enjolras looked towards Bossuet, incredulous. Bossuet patted his head.

“Now, what is going on with you, Maria?” Joly asked.

“West side story!” Enjolras exclaimed, shaking his head. “I got it for once.”

“There, there,” Joly cooed, apparently ignoring him. “We’re here now.”

They sat down on the couch, Joly and Bossuet resting their heads on Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras tried to quell the uneasiness in his heart. How had they known? How did Courfeyrac? Did Combeferre see it too, but was too embarrassed or disgusted to mention it?

Maybe the fact that Enjolras had realized how he felt had become the catalyst for others realizing. It had been weeks, after all. Enjolras just had to hope Combeferre didn’t know.

The party continued on, but it was ruined for Enjolras. Even after everyone had gone home, he couldn’t stop thinking about how much of a fool he must have seemed all this time. He turned off the lights and buried his face into the pillow, wishing for an elephant to fall on him and crush him in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week! Let's see how long this can last *_*
> 
> Also: Thank you to everyone who has messaged me or commented! You're all great. 
> 
> Next chapter is a good one! Are you excited? I'm excited.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is shorter than I expected, and also around two months late. Yup, I'm terrible. Sorry?  
> I kept getting hopeful comments and I just... I couldn't leave you guys like that.
> 
> Reminder that I have no beta?? Do point out mistakes to me if you see them <3
> 
> TW for Panic Attack in the 3rd part of the chapter.

Grantaire pulled at his shirt as he walked down towards south central. He was going to a friend’s house – a party – but it had been planned late. In all fairness, he wouldn’t have gone if it had been any other occasion; the streets blurred together when he tried to focus. His roommate Lou was out with his girlfriend, but Grantaire couldn’t miss this party. It was his first week of College – his first time out of Omaha in his whole life. He had to go.

He’d only wished he’d brought a jacket.

Down the street, a shadow smudged across his eyes. Grantaire pushed back his glasses in an effort to see the end of the path. His glasses were new, horn-rimmed, and he’d had to work for weeks to afford them. They may have been stylish, but his Mom wouldn’t pay for the lenses. So he’d had to buy the bad ones. And, well. Now he was seeing things.

Grantaire walked faster, eyes darting in every alleyway. A street lamp flickered. As much as baptism by fire may work, it still made him feel edgy. It was a relief to get out onto the main street.

He stopped for a second to read the headline of a newspaper in the dispenser. Sticking his hand in his pocket, Grantaire fumbled for some change, before realizing his destination. Taking a newspaper to a party? _Don’t be a square, Grantaire._ He smiled to himself sardonically at the rhyme.

Grantaire walked on. It was strangely comforting, the lurid lights. Nothing could touch him here – and there, just across the way – the party’s lights glowing, silhouettes of college students in the windows. Grantaire stepped out onto the road --

At that second, his world was jolted into darkness as he felt a sharp tug pull him into an alley, splaying him on the floor.

“Who’s there?” Grantaire rasped, voice wobbling.

Silence.

“I’ll call the cops!” His voice rose shakily.

There was no way he could have fallen this far back – the sidewalk was at least 7 feet away. Grantaire couldn’t even long-jump that distance in high school.

“Come on fellas, this isn’t funny.”

Another blow pushed him face down. Grasping for a hold, he pulled himself towards the wall, where he curled up, holding up a piece of wood out against any muggers.

“If you want my stuff, just come out, Goddammit,”

And then, a whisper in his ear that sent a cold chill down his spine. “I don’t want your ‘stuff’ Grantaire. I want you.”

Then Grantaire’s eyes rolled into nothingness.

*

Marius was walking down the stairs to the 42nd Street subway when he slipped. He was carrying some books from the library, old Gaelic stories, not dissimilar in grammar from a document he was trying to translate from a subdialect of Fae, when his foot slid on some mushed McDonald's, sending him flying. Shooting hands out in all directions as he fell, Marius tried to catch the books before they were soiled by the sticky concrete.

He stared up, dazed, from his position of the floor. His books were floating – or, wait – they were floating. Now they were – Marius reached out to grab them as they fell, relieved on about 12 levels that he wouldn’t have to explain to Mabeuf why his ancient texts now had tomato ketchup on, and further relieved that no-one had seen the incident.

Unsure of how to respond – after all, ghosts were evil, right? He shouldn’t - Marius nodded jerkily to whatever helped him, flushing all the way up his neck, before darting on the train. He cringed – Courfeyrac would cry with laughter when he heard about this. Or he’d be angry. Marius hoped it was the second one.

*

Enjolras was pleased things were returning to normalcy. Here he was, clad with a coffee and laptop, working away in the Alphabet, like he was back in college. Before all of this happened. Not the recent __this – the general _this_. It made him feel oddly out of place.

Shaking his head, he looked back at his work. He was trying to email the leader of a feminist group to organize a feedback session after the protest. But his heart wasn’t in it. Looking up from his laptop, he saw a familiar mop of brown hair at the counter. Grantaire hadn’t noticed him yet, but Enjolras noticed him. He was wearing a tight shirt that showed off his biceps, and didn’t look the least bit worse for wear after last night.

Enjolras hated him a bit more for that.

This, admittedly, wasn’t for the best reasons. Not the moral high ground he usually held anyway, and – Oh shit, he was coming over.

“Hi Grantaire,” Enjolras choked out.

“Hi Enjolras, how are you?” Grantaire said, rather timidly. It didn’t suit him.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Pause. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” He coughed self-consciously, fiddling with his cup. “Look, Enjolras-“

“What brings you here?” Enjolras blurted. “I mean, you go first.”

“No, no. It’s alright.”

“Really.” Enjolras motioned for Grantaire to take the empty seat.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry we haven’t gotten off on the best foot. And that I’m here to help whenever you need me.” Grantaire shifted.

“Oh.” Enjolras said, feeling like he’d had the ground knocked out underneath him. “Thanks, Grantaire.”

“Yeah.” He said awkwardly. “That was painful. I feel like Pontmercy.”

Enjolras laughed, glad that the tension could dissipate now. Grantaire seemed to sigh in relief, pulling out his chair and sitting down. “Well, I appreciate it anyway. You’re a good man, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s coffee cup paused half way to his mouth. “Rig- Right. Thank you.” He said shakily. Enjolras didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. “So, what are you working on?” He peered over, looking at Enjolras’ laptop.

Enjolras fought the urge to slam the laptop down and hide what he was doing, despite its innocence in the face of civilians. “Just activist stuff.”

“Activist stuff?” Grantaire smirked.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Indulge m-“

Enjolras looked sharply at Grantaire, who had frozen, whiter than Enjolras had ever seen him. His hands were grasping the table, knuckles white. Following Grantaire’s line of sight, Enjolras saw a bald man at the shop counter, talking stiffly to the barista.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras touched his arm. “Grantaire, are you alright?”

“Dontmakemegobackpleasedontmakeme.” Grantaire was sinking down in his seat.

The man was leaving now. Casting a pre-cursory glance around the café, he nodded to himself, ignoring both the coffee and the assistant’s calls for him to pay. In a second, the man had gone.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire was hyperventilating; there was no doubt about it. His eyes dilated, and he was talking to himself, his voice terrified. Enjolras called the first person he could think of.

“I think Grantaire’s having a panic attack. What do I do?” Enjolras half-yelled into the speaker as soon as the call connected.

“Oh shit.” Courfeyrac said bluntly. There were sounds of banging in the background. “Keep talking to him, Enjolras, and take him somewhere quiet. I’m on my way.” He hung up.

Enjolras looked at the brunette. “Grantaire?” He cleared his throat. “Grantaire. Look at me. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe, Grantaire.”

“Pleasedon’tmakemegobackpleaseI’lldoanythingpleasedon’tmakmepleaseyoudon’tknowwhatitwaslikepleaseplease.”

“Come on, Grantaire. Look at me. That’s it. Look at me, you’re okay. You’re alright. Grantaire.” He put his hand on the man’s arm. Grantaire turned to look at him, brown eyes unfocused under the soft light of the Alphabet. Luckily the rest of the café hadn’t realized what was wrong, as he was still in his seat.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked.

“Enjolras?” A voice came from behind them. Courfeyrac. “Now Grantaire, I’m going to ask you to take some big breaths.” Courfeyrac motioned breathing in and out, pulling Grantaire’s shoulders with him in some sort of bizarre dance. Realizing that he was still holding Grantaire’s arm, Enjolras hastily shoved his hands in his pockets, and then into his lap.

“That’s it, in and out.” Courfeyrac smiled. He continued this with Grantaire until the latter had stopped shaking. “Is there someone I can call to come fetch you? Or we could take you ho-”

Grantaire shook his head, “There’s-“

“Grantaire!”

All three swerved towards the figure rushing towards them.

“Jehan?” Courfeyrac’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“Courfeyrac?” Jehan cried.

“What are you-?”

“How are you-?”

The two of them looked down, blushing. Jehan was even twirling his- their-? hair around Jehan’s finger. 

Enjolras cleared his throat, “Courfeyrac, is this-?”

All four of them were caught, eyes darting between each other.

“Shit.” Grantaire said weakly. All turned to look at him.

Grantaire raised his shoulders shakily, hands gesturing downwards, a mirthful smile growing on his face. But Enjolras wasn’t looking at his mouth.

“My coffee spilt.”

There was something unreadable in Grantaire’s eyes. 

And Enjolras didn’t trust it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like booing because there's no Feuilly in this chapter. Boo! Boo!


End file.
